


Dealings With a God

by JadedCoral



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedCoral/pseuds/JadedCoral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Anders actually wants to get into Mitchell's pants with his constant flirting. He just wants to make the man yield to his will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As a forewarning I should say that I haven't watched the Almighty Johnsons. I don't think I could handle all the Dean O'Gorman feels right now. Also, I started to write this story before I had watched Being Human. So, the characterization might be a bit... something. I don't know! But the Britchell fandom is amazing and I wanted to something for it! ;u;  
> So here is my attempt of a contribution. It's supposed to be fluffy. I like fluff. Though it might grow a little bit darker later. But I'm aiming for fluff.

The bar Anders has ended up in is shady as fuck. The lighting is dim, as seem to be its customers, and no-name beverages are being served so cheap that he wonders if it’s because they come with the risk of losing one’s sight upon drinking them. Its low class, dirty and not his style.

But more importantly, it is _not_ his brother’s bar.

Not that Anders can remember his reason for boycotting Mike’s bar in the first place, not when there is the loveliest lady keeping him company, her legs already spreading underneath the table as they drown a couple more drinks. He calls her his goddess and she laughs, flattered and eager as he runs his foot up her ankle.

Technically he’s already scored and that if anything deserves a final round of drinks. She agrees with a drunken giggle, commanding him to make haste as he rises from his seat, gives her a filthy kiss and starts for the bar counter.

That’s how Anders first meets _him_. Pissed off at his brother, disgusted by his surroundings and about to root the most beautiful woman this part of the neighbourhood has got to offer, almost drunk off his ass yet still having the capacity to carry his enormous ego.

A tall, dark and brooding figure sits at the bar counter as Anders leans against it, rising two fingers to signal the bartender that he and his lady friend would like them to keep coming. The stranger doesn’t seem like anything special, if a bit more suspicious and ragged than the rest of the bar’s occupants. His face is tolerable, Anders gives him that much, but not enough to take his primary thoughts away from all the positions in which he was planning to fuck his goddess of the night.

But the thing is.

The man’s jeans.

They are _tight_.

So tight in fact that he worries over the guy’s blood circulation and asks helpfully, “Need help getting out of those?” as he gestures towards the trousers.

The stranger blinks at him, once, twice, before a smile grows on his face.

“Nah, I’ll manage, thanks,” he says while grinning against his pint.

Amusing as everything about the situation is, Anders takes it as a challenge rather than laughs it off. It’s not like he really wants what he is asking of the man, but he can’t deny the yearning he has for the satisfaction he gets when people yield to his will.

So, “You sure about that?” he asks with Bragi’s voice which feels so silken against his throat that he’s at risk arousing himself with it. It’s just harmless flirting, Anders thinks. A few words exchanged for his own amusement. And if it ended up in him having been nothing but a cock-tease for the other man, then all the better.

He has already scored a way prettier pair of legs to spread, after all.

The man laughs at him. A closed eyed, open mouthed laugh that is in no way similar to the one the woman waiting for him had graced him with.

“Sorry, mate. A no’s a no,” says the man through quirked lips, rising his emptied pint in the air as a mock toast before setting it down on the counter, throwing some money next to it and hopping down from his stool.

It’s still supposed to be nothing but a joke, but it certainly feels like a defeat. Anders stares at the man’s retreating back, Bragi’s disbelief spreading through him with every step he takes without turning to look back at the god.

 _Fuck_.

Anders doesn’t even want to bang the guy, but he feels an unbelievable need to bend him over and just make him _look_ at him, _goddamn it_ , have his skin be so sensitive that he doesn’t know what to do with himself when Bragi: God of _fucking_ Poetry assaults his senses with words that stroke every unspoken desire he daren’t mention to anyone else.

“You’re _inhuman_!” Anders yells into the night air and at the back of the man as he trots after him. If his words make the other flinch, he doesn’t notice, too focused on catching up with the now frozen figure.

Bragi’s still in his voice, painting his tones with powerful poetry that encourages war against unjust rule and vividly describes the filth of humanity. At the back of his drunken mind Anders might be taken aback by the way he’s unconsciously behaving, by how his words have only ever been sensual and in good fun until now. But he’s drunk and insensible, too much of a cock to take the rejection as nothing but a personal insult.

“ _No one_ says no to me,” Anders says once he catches up with the man, knowing nothing but a lover’s touch with which to turn the other around to face him. The man looks a bit stunned at first, before the easy, amused smile returns to his lips. And for a reason, too, Anders realises to his embarrassment.

Gone is his ode to the prelude of war.

He’s just _whining_ now.

“Big words from such a little guy,” the man smirks down at him, words all insult while his eyes are filled with nothing but good humour.

“You wouldn’t say that if you let me show you _all_ of me,” Anders says while his fingers find the belt loops of those tight, tight jeans, pulling the man closer by them while making sure his smile has got a crooked edge to it.

The man’s eyelids seem to grow heavier and he’d look very much charmed if not for the smirk still playing on his lips. He leans in closer to Anders, lips about as ajar as are his eyes, his exhales of breath leaving Anders’ skin tingling where it caresses his face.

“I would love to,” whispers the other to him, gaze dancing between Anders’ lips and eyes. It’s enough to make Anders’ blood hasten its laps around his body as he anticipates the sweet lips-on-lips contact. And it’ll be sweet, because it’s going to taste like victory.

But just as he’s leaning in closer to indicate that he’s about ready to be kissed right now, thank you very much, the taller man ducks his head to the side, burying his nose in the crook of Anders’ neck instead and taking a deep inhale of breath there.

“I’d love to,” repeats the man, his stubble scratching the bare skin of Anders’ neck as he noses his way up to press his lips against his ear. “But you reek of _arrogance_.”

Anders can _feel_ the bastard’s smirk against his face, it killing any shivers of yearning and pleasure he had just felt.

“It’s called _confidence_ ,” Anders deadpans when the man pulls away. “Nothing sexier than that.”

“Whatever you say,” he laughs, taking a step back to regain his personal space. “I think you left a goddess waiting.”

 _Let her wait_ , Anders wants to say, but says nothing at all when the man walks away again. And if he later that night fucks her a bit rougher than he usually would, he tells himself it’s her mistreatment of grammar that has him all riled up.

 

* * *

 

A few days later Anders finds himself at the hospital, sending dramatic text messages to his family while he waits for the doctor to come and set his nose straight. He doesn’t really expect to be smothered with sympathy, but the way every single one of his brothers reply with how he probably deserved it makes him pout. It’s hardly _his_ fault if the woman took off her wedding ring before wooing him, then distracting him so much that he didn’t have the time to talk himself out of the situation when her beefcake of a husband walked in on them.

He’d broken his nose on his _fist_ for god’s sake!

Dawn at least seems to be a bit concerned about him, sending her regards via text but being apparently too busy to come over to be truly assured of his wellbeing. Something about keeping the company running and all that.

Arseholes. Every last one of them.

Then again, Anders thinks as he sees a man with dark, curly hair walk past his room, maybe his situation isn’t as grim as he had previously thought.

“Oi!” he yells after the man from the doorway of the room he had been ushered into by blushing nurses. It’s enough to gain him attention from several people passing by, but Anders only waves his hand in a dismissing manner at the rest of them.

The man whose attention he’s interested in frowns at him, as if having trouble understanding why Anders would be beckoning him with come hither motions. Still, he approaches Anders quite without expression.

“You got, ah, a little something on your-“ the man starts to say, gesturing vaguely to his own nose while doing an increasingly poor job in trying to keep his mirth at bay.

“No idea what you are trying to indicate,” Anders responds, keeping his face neutral as he leans against the doorframe, pocketing his hands and ignoring the throbbing pain on his face. The other can’t seem to keep a straight face any longer, his eyes growing to slits and white teeth peeking from behind his lips as he chuckles at him. And isn’t that a sight to behold?

“Can I help you with something?” The man asks then. He rests his chin against the tip of the mop he had been carrying around and manages to look like a lazy feline as he observes Anders through half closed lids.

“What’s your name?” Anders asks casually, cocking his head the slightest and raising his brows. He might be the one with a bleeding face, but he’d be damned if he still couldn’t manage to come out as the most confident bastard on this god forsaken planet.

“Mitchell,” the other says and gives the identity card clipped to his uniform a little flip.

 _Mitchell, Mitchell_ , Anders’ mind keeps chanting while he moves on with what _Mitchell_ can help him. “Can I have your number?”

“That’s highly inappropriate, sir,” _Mitchell_ smiles lazily at him.

“I think tight jeans would suit you better. Those,” Anders waves his hand at the baby blue attire _Mitchell_ is currently wearing, “do your body hardly any justice.”

“That’s because I’m a cleaner, not a rent boy.”

There seems to be something seriously wrong with _Mitchell_ , Anders thinks. It’s both his continuous inability to fall for Bragi’s voice as well as his way of easily accepting Anders’ flirting without giving much in return. Anders has never been so lost at his own field of expertise before.

It makes him dislike _Mitchell_ all the more. It also makes him like him. And it leaves him hungry for more.

“You should come to my place,” Anders tries using Bragi once more no matter how futile he knows it to be.

“As much a turn on as your bleeding nose is, I disagree,” says _Mitchell_ while smirking like the apparent bastard he is.

“Turned on by blood? What are you, a vampire?” Anders scoffs, missing the momentary dark look that flickers across the other’s eyes before a slightly tight smile is back on his face.

“And what if I was?” He asks.

Anders shrugs, feeling a bit conflicted about the images that assault his mind when he says, “Then I’d just have to worry about you sucking things other than my cock.”

“Arsehole,” _Mitchell_ mutters more to himself than to anyone else, darkness and tightness of smile gone as his gaze returns to Anders. “If I’m a vampire, then what does that make _you_?”

“God of poetry!” He spreads his arms and tilts his head to face the ceiling as if he can’t quite fathom how glorious he himself is. The number of people who have the potential of knowing he is not joking is so few and most likely to have an accent similar to his that he’s hardly at any risk of being taken seriously at the moment. And _Mitchell_ doesn’t take it as the truth at all, not when he’s laughing straight from the belly at Anders’ claims to not only excel at wording things, but to be a _god_ of them as well.

“You don’t believe me,” Anders pouts at him, letting his spread arms drop to his sides in mock disappointment.

“You’re a proper wanker, you are.” His gaze is on the floor as _Mitchell_ is able to speak again, tears in his eyes and the handle of his mop dancing from hand to the other in a swaying motion. Maybe asking him to look at Anders right now would be too much.

And maybe pushing this thing of theirs a bit further wouldn’t hurt.

“Yet to see me in action and already complimenting me on my technique? Are you trying to flatter me Mr Mitchell?”

“Well, it’d be a damn _shame_ not to respond to your attempts to charm my maiden heart with such excellent poetry.”

“All right then!” another voice interrupts their game, loud and accompanied with a meaningful cough. It appears that Anders’ doctor has arrived, and by the looks of it, does not think well of their exchange of pleasantries.

“Mr Anders Johnson?” asks the doctor while reading his name off a clipboard.

“Yes,” Anders smiles at her, charming as he can be with his current condition.

“Take a seat, if you would.” Gesturing inside the room, she stands still on the doorway as a sign for him to enter before her. “And _please_ stop flirting with the staff,” she adds, giving a meaningful glare at _Mitchell_ for playing along.

 _Mitchell_ smiles sheepishly and raises his both hands as a sign of surrender.

“I’ll be _just_ behind you,” Anders smiles at the doctor, knowing he’s being very convincing indeed when she looks a bit dazed before nodding and entering the room before him. Having gotten rid of her, Anders turns his smile back to _Mitchell_ , fishing out a business card from his wallet and holding it out for the man to take.

“Look, I don’t really do men,” _Mitchell_ says while he’s already reaching for the card. When he tries to tug it to himself, Anders tightens his hold on it just a little bit so that they’re both pulling on it lightly.

“Then we already have something in common.” he replies, letting go of the card by spearing all of his fingers wide, then giving a small wave before going after his doctor to get his nose fixed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, yay! I feel like there was something I was supposed to say but I always forget everything when I'm about to update. Hmm.  
> I don't know much about Anders' brothers. I actually thought Mike was Olaf and the other way around before bothering to wikipediate the show. Let's hope they're not awfully ooc.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy! :)

Many a day has passed since Anders last saw Mitchell. He’s not about to start counting the days, though if he had to make a rough estimate, he’d say it has been about four days considering he has had only one root since then and he cannot go without a minimum of two lays a week. Unless, that is, there is something seriously wrong with him.

His fears are confirmed when watching two blondes make out on his computer screen does little for him.

Thus the reason Anders has lines on his forehead from the way his brows are drawn together while he helps himself to a glass of whiskey.

“So there’s this person I met-” Anders begins when Mike _finally_ makes his way down the stairs from his living quarters into the bar area.

“Didn’t I ban you from here?” Mike asks before Anders has the time to continue telling him his problems.

“ _Ban_ me? Why would you do that? I thought I was boycotting your bar but forgot why. Anyway, I-”

“No, I _banned_ you because of the _prostitutes_ you-“

“Mitchell is _not_ a prostitute!” Jerking upwards from his spineless slump makes Anders accidentally spill some whiskey on his sleeve just as Olaf finds the strength to haul himself up from behind the counter where he had passed out after a heavy night of drinking. His sudden appearance fails to surprise either of the arguing brothers.

“Jesus _Christ_! What is up with all this shouting,” the oracle moans, leaning his whole upper body against the bar counter and futilely trying to reach for the bottle of whiskey which Anders is determined to keep from out of his reach. Mike seems to grow less and less impressed by the behaviour of his relatives.

“If he were a prostitute my wallet could have done the talking and I’d have never gotten to deal with this _shit_!” Anders tells Mike while taking a gulp from the bottle he had acquired without paying, glass long gone into the clutches of Olaf who had to make do when all else had been denied of him.

“ _He_?” Mike asks.

“What’s this shit you have to deal with?” Olaf wants to know.

“He won’t _listen_ to me,” Anders continues to mourn, his own misery so overwhelming that he completely misses the way Mike rolls his eyes and mutters how much the guy must be like his little brother at the moment, then. “Or he listens but won’t do as I want him to.”

“What perils you go through,” Mike says dry as a desert.

“Means he’s not a mortal, that’s all,” their grandpa says cheerily, getting his hands on another bottle from behind the bar counter and shushing the owner before he had the time to complain. They have a tab going, after all, one that has been open for years. Why close it now? “Is he another god then, this Mitchell of yours?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe he’s really a vampire or some shit.”

Olaf hums and leans against his hand in a lazy manner, sloshing the drink in his glass as he thought. “I met a vampire once. Crazy fellow. Could do drugs like there was no tomorrow.”

“Eh? You’re saying vampires really exist?” Anders asks with his eyes wide, wonder lasting only for a moment before he became to accept the fact. And why the hell not? Anders is a god, his brothers are gods, and it’s all so fucked up anyway.

“Excuse me?” came from the door of the bar, interrupting their lovely little family time together. The voice of it was familiar, though, and turning around eliminated any non-existent doubts that Anders might have had of to whom the voice belonged.

“Mitchell!” Anders perks up considerably, a broad grin growing on his face against his better judgement. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“Ain’t it just?” Mitchell dryly asks despite the small smile on his face. “May I come in?”

“Definitely a vampire,” Olaf mutters against the brim of his glass, then raising his voice to amuse himself some. “It’s not exactly business hours but a bar is usually open for customers.”

“This place looks so cosy it almost feels like entering private premises. I just thought I’d ask to be polite,” says Mitchell, still not moving from the door. “I can come back later if-“

“No!” Anders all but shouts, clumsily jumping off his stool and toppling his bottle of whiskey in the process. “Come in, come in.”

Only then does Mitchell step inside, taking a look around the empty bar before starting to make his way to the three men occupying the bar counter. Anders watches his approach with a dumb, drunken smile on his face, struggling to sit back on the stool he had just hopped down from.

“What brings you to my brother’s bar, eh?” Anders asks, already pouring a drink that Mitchell did not ask for.

“It’s a funny story, actually,” says Mitchell while taking a seat and nodding to the two other men as a silent greeting between strangers.

“Do tell,” Anders inquires, leaning in close enough to have their shoulders meet. Whether Mitchell raises an eyebrow at his whiskey breath or lack of subtleness, he does not know.

“I met this woman who was in hysterics because her boss hadn’t show up this morning and wouldn’t answer his phone.”

“Poor thing. I can’t even begin to imagine her grief,” Anders tries his hardest to sympathise.

“I offered her my cup of take-away coffee to calm her down and she started to tell me what a dickhead her boss was.”

“Sounds a bit mean of her.”

“At some point it started to sound _really_ familiar to this guy I recently met,” Mitchell continues without giving Anders’ replies much attention. “Finally she asked me to be a dear and come check this place to see if he’s around.”

“And what a dear you were. Shall we drink to that?” Olaf had been kind enough to pour them all shots of aquavit and Anders didn’t hesitate to raise his own in the air as a merry invitation for Mitchell to do the same. Which he did with a brilliant smile and without a question.

“Skål!” they cheer and throw the poison down their throats, creating the most optimal moment for Olaf to lean against the counter and ask, “So you’re a vampire?”

The alcohol seems to take a wrong turn in Mitchell’s throat and the poor man starts to cough painfully, looking up in disbelief at the man. “W-what?” he gets out while Anders is busy whacking his back with a generous hand.

“You heard what I said,” says Olaf voice full of balls considering he’s talking to an apparent predator.

Even while done with the beating, Anders fails to pull his hand away now that it gets to touch Mitchell’s back. He leaves it to linger and move up and down in a soothing manner, relishing the feel of spine bumps beneath his palm.

“How would you know to ask that? What are you?” Mitchell asks, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“We already had this conversation, remember?” Anders says before his relatives can come up with some hastily made up bullshit that no one cares for. Subtly he leans in closer to Mitchell and rests his head on his shoulder, wondering how far he can go before he’s pushed away.

“You _told_ him?” Mike more or less gasps in disbelief.

“I told him and he _laughed_ ,” Anders recalls while scrunching his nose.

“What can I say? Poetry doesn’t get around much in my atheistic circles,” Mitchell defends himself, adding a, “no offence,” as an afterthought.

“And I deny sighing wistfully whilst reading teenage vampire romance novels, but here we all are,” Anders smiles drunkenly, letting his hand slip from Mitchell’s back to rest on his waist, still meeting no resistance.

The vampire looks sceptical, still, stealing a glance from the corner of his eye. “A god, huh?” he wonders out loud. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Not well, apparently,” Mike says mockingly from the background even though Anders has done so well in almost slithering his way to Mitchell’s lap.

“A Norse God incarnation to be more specific.” Speaking louder than his brother, Anders explains while his other hand does motions in the air like it would help anyone understand him better. “I’m Bragi: God of Poetry. And these guys are something alike as well but we don’t care about that, do we Mitchell?”

“I dunno. I find all this rather interesting.”

Anders huffs at that, not wanting to waste time explaining his relatives to someone whose pants he was determined to remove. Thinking that a diversion would work miracles in his situation, he drops the matter of gods and goes to inquire about the habits of vampires instead, asking a perfectly relevant question of, “So is it true that vampires suck blood, then?”

Which makes Mitchell grow tense, the lax body Anders had been comfortably leaning onto suddenly spine straight and displeasingly angled.

“Ease up the rigor mortis, _Christ_. I only meant to ask if it means you have an oral fixation.”

It earns him a glare despite his good intentions. “You know, I’m honestly starting to consider stuffing something into that mouth of yours just to shut you up,” Mitchell says threateningly, though all Anders hears are promises.

“Yeah?” he pretty much purrs against the other’s ear. “What’ve you got in mind, I wonder?”

Turning around just the slightest so that they are nose to nose, Mitchell murmurs lowly, “I’m thinking something long and hard and thick,” drawing out the last word before ending it by exaggerating the sound of the last consonant with a loud click of his tongue.

A shiver of anticipation runs through Anders when Mitchell bites the air before his nose playfully, teeth clicking together with a delicious sound that leaves him to wonder how they would feel if they were biting his skin instead.

“The lavatories are just over there if you want to try, or do I have to talk you into it?”

Mike does not like what he hears, having hanged around just to see that his worst relatives don’t drink him out of a house or that a vampire doesn’t drink him out of relatives. He lets out a strangled grunt before he manages to form words. “No,” he says almost pleadingly when the two men get off their stools. “No, no, no. You will _not_ go into the toilets!”

“Better not fight it, kiddo.” Olaf tells him, handing Mike a glass containing something mysterious by the colour of it. Drowning it in one go and asking for more, Mike swears how this time he’d disown his brother for good. 

 

* * *

 

The moment they enter the lavatory Anders is pushing himself against the body that is made to carry tight jeans, pressing the man against the solid surface of the door and diving his hand right into a mess of curly hair. His attempts to crash their lips together in a heated kiss fails, however, when Mitchell doesn’t go along with it, instead leaning his head against the door and thus effectively keeping anything of importance out of Anders’ kissing range.

The man has a shit eating grin on his face when he casually says, “Someone’s a bit desperate.”

He considers kicking him right in the nuts to make Mitchell topple over and see what Anders thinks about his height being used against him like this. “You’re a fucking tease,” he hisses out instead, saving the extremities for later in case Mitchell decided to act extra difficult. “Get off your high horse and let me kiss you.”

“I thought you were supposed to kiss something you can actually reach?”

To misdirect himself from his previous plans, Anders runs his hand up Mitchell’s chest, rubbing his palm against a nipple before roughly twisting it between his fingers.

“Ow, ow, ow! You _bastard_!” Mitchell cries out, face twisting from the hurt. It makes Anders laugh thinking that this can hardly be the most intense pain the vampire has ever been in yet he manages to make such a show out of it.

A simple nipple twist is not enough to pay back the wrongness he had just dealt with, though, so when Mitchell’s body hunches as a reaction to the pain, Anders grabs his hair again and brings their mouths together. And it’s not a kiss he’s giving the bastard of a vampire, no. He _bites_ those stupid lips that took a joke too far, teeth fast and sharp enough to cause a bleeding injury.

“Fucking hell!” Mitchell cries out again, hand flying to cover his bleeding lower lip, unintentionally smearing the redness across his mouth. “If you treat all your lay interests this way I just might have to kick your ass!”

“No,” Anders growls, returning the glare he’s receiving. “Only _idiots_ who have no sense of mood and timing deserve to be treated thusly.”

Apparently disagreeing with his accusations, Mitchell grabs a hold of Anders’ collar, spinning the both of them around until the god’s back connects with a tiled wall of the bathroom with a thud. The back of his head tingles slightly from the rough connection, and when he opens his eyes which reflex had closed, he can see Mitchell close enough to take note of the details of his irises.

There’s no reason for it, but they both seem to be out of breath, heavy exhales brushing against both of their skins. Their eyes roam over the face in front of them, trailing paths over eyebrows and pores and corners of mouths in an attempt to escape the look in the other’s eyes. It makes Anders swallow thickly, the motion of his Adam’s apple gaining Mitchell’s attention, making his breath hitch.

Anders is pretty convinced he doesn’t like the guy. He hates being manhandled around by other men and certainly has never entertained the thought of being pinned against a wall by one. Mitchell acts way too smoothly to his advances, and even though Anders doesn’t really want to take them any further, Mitchell makes it very hard for him to stop what he is doing. Worst of all, Mitchell doesn’t listen to him.

He doesn’t _listen_.

So god help him understand why Anders wants to be kissed _so badly_ right now, the ache of it parting his lips when it starts to feel like he’ll suffocate if he continues to try and draw another shuddering breath through his nose.

Mitchell doesn’t seem to be faring any better, his body leaning in like being pulled by a magnet, until whatever amount of sanity he has left tries to fight against it and pulls him back the slightest bit. In the end he relents, not giving Anders the kiss, but pressing his still bleeding lips against the god’s throat, mouthing an area under which a rabidly pulsating vein lied.

It tears an unexpected moan from Anders, and with his eyes wide from the mortification, he grabs a solid hold of Mitchell’s shoulders.

And that is the moment Anders’ little brother decides to enter the lavatory, opening the door so quick that it startles both men occupying the room.

“Anders? Mike said that you came in here with an actual _vampire_ and might be in trouble if I didn’t come to check on you,” Axl babbles with a flood of words that won’t stop. “Which is stupid, if you ask me. As if vampires even exist, and even if they did and he was right to be concerned, then why didn’t he come and check on you himself?”

Axl keeps talking even though he spots his brother and a stranger wide-eyed and frozen against each other, staring at him like deer caught in the headlights. The thing is, that while Axl _does_ see them –a dark, gloomy looking guy pinning his brother against the wall by his collar with blood smeared both on the stranger’s lips and Anders’ throat- it takes a while for him to take in the sight.

The seconds tick tock away in thick, awkward silence, three minds hitting on empty when they desperately try to grasp a hold of what is going on.

Mitchell’s the first one who tries to speak, going with a desperate, “It’s not what it looks like.”

The legendary saying does little to lessen the tension in the room. If anything, it snaps Axl out of his state of utter confusion, his eyes narrowing as he starts to grow more and more convinced that it is _exactly_ what it looks like no matter the lack of wounds from where his brother could have bled from.

All he comprehends is that Anders looks like he’s hurt, and inside him it feels like Odin is ready to brew a war against the one who had caused it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking forever to write this chapter. It's just that whenever I have to write a smut scene I kind of freeze. I'm so bad at them. ;u;  
> Thank you for the support and I hope this continues to be to your liking~!

“He _punched_ me!”

Mitchell sounds on the verge of hysterics, laughing in disbelief while wailing out his pain. “He _actually_ punched me!”

“Just make sure you don’t get any blood on the seats,” Anders tsks, constantly checking the rear view mirror where Mitchell’s reflection should have been seen. There’s nothing there, though, and he can’t seem to decide whether to be freaked out or fascinated by it.

 _Technically_ he shouldn’t even be driving right now, being _slightly intoxicated_ and all, but after Axl had introduced himself as Anders’ brother while plummeting his fist on Mitchell’s face, it felt like they couldn’t get out of Mike’s bar fast enough. It wasn’t that long a ride, besides, and Anders had always been better at getting out of trouble than the other way around, the magic of it being something along the lines of: _Evening, officer, no, no, I’m just a tad tired and live just around the corner and you can put that breathalyser away now, yes, thank you very much indeed and have a wonderful rest of the day,_ while batting his eyelashes and showing just the right amount of collarbone no matter how unnecessary Mitchell had thought it to be.

“Talk about bad first impressions,” Mitchell chuckles after he had fumbled a handkerchief around his nose enough to stop the bleeding. His lip too had healed unfairly fast, something that Anders begrudgingly listed as perks of being a vampire. His own nose injury had still yet to fully heal.

“I’m pretty sure Axl will be the most embarrassed about it,” Anders muses, thinking back how guilty his little brother had looked after Anders had yelled at him how it definitely had _not_ been whatever it was Axl had been thinking, but how it _fucking hell_ could have been all what Anders could have wanted if he hadn’t come and interrupted them. “Please make sure to remind him of it every and any opportunity you get.”

“That’s mean. _You’re_ mean.” Laughing, Mitchell turns to look at the road they’re driving, a look of confusion settling on his pretty face upon realizing he had no idea where they were off to. “Um, I’m pretty sure I don’t live this way.”

“Yeah, you probably don’t. Well observed,” Anders compliments him, not even trying to fight the grin that insisted on creeping on his lips.

Staring at him in disbelief, Mitchell looks on the verge of being actually scared despite being the more dangerous being inside the vehicle.

“Oh god,” the vampire mutters to himself. “Mum always told me not to go with strangers.”

“We toasted together so we’re hardly strangers anymore!” Anders snorts, smiling brightly –if not a bit manically- at Mitchell. “Besides! After my baby brother had the courtesy of making your nose bleed the least _I_ can do is to take you to my house and offer you some comforts to ease the pain.”

“I think these _comforts_ you speak of were the exact thing she tried to warn me about,” Mitchell tries to protest.

“Oh come on, you’re, what, well over your twenties, right? That means you’re a big enough boy to make your own decisions.”

“I was 24 when I died,” Mitchell muses, smiling fondly as he stares at the street lamps on the road. “Still a mama’s boy, though.”

“And how long ago did you die, exactly?” asks Anders with his brows raised.

Mitchell shrugs nonchalantly, bearing a secretive smugness like it was a question he had been waiting for. “Over a hundred years ago or so.”

It makes Anders hit the brakes and stare at the other with his mouth open. “Get out,” he says.

“Gladly,” Mitchell answers, hand already on the door handle, though it does him little good when Anders locks the doors faster than he can open one of them.

“No, I meant- You’re really well-preserved for someone… who has lived for so long.” Starting the car’s engine again, Anders began to drive before Mitchell got the idea to try and crawl out through the windows.

“Someone so _old_ is what you meant to say,” Mitchell says while crossing his arms against his chest and slumping down on his seat. He’s a pouting lump of a hundred-years-or-so old vampire, and Anders has to bite his lip to not get distracted by the thought of how he’s really warming to the image of those pouty lips stretched around his cock.

“Calm your British tits, man. You know I meant nothing by it,” he tries to amend. “In fact, you met Olaf at the bar. He’s working on his nineties as we speak.”

“Irish,” Mitchell mutters, now actually sounding rather moody instead of playfully pouty.

“…Excuse me?”

“I’m _Irish_ ,” he says, brows knit together like it is more important to get his nationality straight rather than to discuss the matter of grandpa Johnson’s secret to eternal youth.

And maybe it really is.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Anders promises while pulling the car to a stop outside his apartment.

They get out of the car, and to Anders’ pleasant surprise, Mitchell doesn’t try to run away. He follows the god obediently to the front door instead, stopping at the threshold to peek curiously inside after Anders manages to open the door.

“Looks like a nice place,” the vampire comments, making Anders look around and notice how he was still standing outside.

Frowning, the god says, “Well don’t just stand there.”

“Am I welcome to come inside?” Mitchell asks while just standing there.

“Do you keep asking that to seem polite or because you want to annoy people?”

“It’s a vampire thing,” the other shrugs. “Can’t enter private premises without an invitation.”

“Well that’s inconvenient.” Throwing his keys down on a table, Anders returns to the front door, bowing slightly as he smirks, “You’re more than welcome to enter my humble abode, your Irishness.”

Grinning widely, Mitchell brushes past him, entering like he has stepped inside his own home. He doesn’t ask where he might find whatever it is he is looking for, instead choosing to strut around until he finds it himself. Not that Anders minds. Long as Mitchell doesn’t break anything or make too much of a mess of places, he’s free to do as he pleases.

The sound of running water makes it obvious the vampire had wandered into the toilet, and for a moment Anders considers following him there. Mitchell was probably bending over the sink to wash the blood off his face, helplessly unaware how easy it would be for Anders to appear behind him and cop a couple of feels before he could do anything about it.

But, being a _gentleman_ , he opts against the perfect opportunity and goes to the kitchen instead, taking a couple of beers out of the refrigerator and opening them so that he’d have something to offer the vampire the moment he deemed himself decent enough to exit the toilet.

Besides, he needs to form a plan of action instead of diving in head first. Every encounter with Mitchell has been either by chance or luck till the moment Anders cleverly took advantage of the situation and got the vampire to unwittingly climb into his car. That had required _skill_ –and, admittedly, an overly violent little brother- and since being Bragi was useless when it came to Mitchell, he needs to be very skilful indeed.

Walking into the living room he looks around, tilting his head as he considers the surroundings. Mitchell might be immune to the charms of an ancient Norse God, but sometimes a comfy couch, consumption of alcohol and slowly decreasing distance between two bodies could do wonders if one wanted to get a bit more intimate.

He considers lighting up candles to aid set the mood, but quickly dismisses the thought. Mitchell is hardly a maiden to be wooed, no matter what the vampire himself might think, and he’d most likely just laugh at Anders’ efforts rather than be moved by them. So instead of the candles and soft background music, Anders settles for simply setting the two beers down on the living room table to await their consumption, while he goes to stand in front of his aquarium to wait for Mitchell to reappear.

His fish don’t react in approval when he taps lightly on the glass as he thinks things over and muses that what he had come up with was as good a plan as any:

_1\. Get on the sofa._

_2\. Have a good time._

_3\. Make out and receive a hand job for being awesome._

_4\. And most importantly, see Mitchell without his jeans on._

When he nods to agree with himself, his fish fail to do the same.

“What are you thinking about?”

The sudden question startles him, but still he manages to grin before turning to watch Mitchell who is leaning casually against the entrance of the living room.

“ _You_ ,” he replies smoothly, gaze glued to Mitchell when the vampire pushes himself from the wall and starts to walk towards him.

“About all the things I want to do to you,” he continues when he receives no reaction to his statement which often has the target either running, acting unnecessarily violent or opening their legs. “How I would love to rid you of your clothes and get you into my bed-“

Mitchell’s standing in front of him now, pleasantly close considering it’s exactly where Anders wants him to be. The vampire has an intense look on his face, like he’s not really listening to what Anders is saying while simultaneously hearing and understanding every word of it. Both his hands come to rest on Anders’ cheeks while the god is still talking, and Anders would have gone on and on until Mitchell could no longer resist him and seek inspiration from the things Anders is busy telling him about.

It doesn’t quite go that way, though. His monologue is cut short when Mitchell pushes the tips of his thumps into his, “Dimples!”

It leaves the God of Poetry speechless, mood completely ruined by the childishly laughing vampire in front of him.

“It’s a shame they’re hidden by this overgrowth of a beard,” Mitchell comments, rubbing them in the meanwhile Anders stands still and gapes, too stunned to do much anything but take it.

“What the hell?” he finally snaps, hands flying to grab a hold of Mitchell’s wrists in order to pry them away and face heating up from a variety of unsavoury emotions. The bastard doesn’t let him go. His smile only widens from watching the fluster he has caused.

“I think I’m going to kiss you now,” Mitchell says from out of the blue.

“You _think_!?” He manages to growl before Mitchell leans down, his scent being the only thing Anders can breathe in when Mitchell finally presses their lips together without further ceremony.

It’s not-

He doesn’t-

It’s not a drunken spur of an idea caused by a sudden decrease in acumen. It’s not a mess of a kiss caused by the heat of the moment. It’s not one intended to swallow up any sounds that two bodies writhing together might tear from the other’s throat either.

Mitchell kisses him with his eyes closed, caressing fingers and a smile on his lips. His mouth is ajar, and when he sighs against Anders’ lips the god can feel the shudder in it, one that slips into his mouth and causes a crawling shiver.

The kiss is slow and throughout, more giving than it is taking and so full of _affection_ that Anders feels like it both fills his lungs and leaves him drowning as it empties them of air and has him choking.

“Sorry.” Pulling away from the kiss, Mitchell watches Anders trying to regain his breath with dilated pupils. “It’s an inconvenient moment to forget that others need to breathe,” he says with an embarrassed grin.

Anders doesn’t say anything to that, choosing to try and get his thoughts back rather than ponder on the functionality of vampires. Mitchell might’ve literally taken his breath away, but Anders would never give the man even the opportunity to think that he had also done so figuratively.

“You have a beard,” he comments to lead the other’s possible thoughts far, far away from the path his own had been in danger of taking and rakes the blunt nails of his hand across Mitchell’s cheek to feel his stubble, scrunching his nose as if its existence displeases him.

“ _You_ have a beard,” the other laughs while pulling on the coarse hair Anders likes to sport on his face just to prove a point.

Scoffing at the joviality, Anders pats Mitchell’s hands away from his face and gestures towards the sofa and bottles of beer warming up on the table, asking, “Want to sit down?” because that was his _plan_ and he needs to execute his plans in order to remain in control and have things go his way.

But Mitchell doesn’t seem ready play along, instead taking a good long look at how Anders’ breast still heaves a bit unsteadily after their kiss and how he doesn’t quite meet his eye. And so licking his lips Mitchell says, “I think I’d rather take you to bed instead.”

The words are like a punch low on his stomach, both arousing and frightening, because while the sofa is for heavy petting and fun forays, the bed is for sex and only that. He’d be lying at the end of his conquest, having gotten what he presumably wanted, bodily satisfied with promises to call the other leaving his lips while they both know that is not going to happen. Because while he loves to fuck strangers, he loathes to have them stay.

He’d be lying, though, if he denied feeling uncomfortable thinking that this was the end of whatever he had with Mitchell.

But lie he did when Mitchell closes his arms around him and kisses him again with much more purpose and heat this time, making Anders’ body respond with aggressive greed which he’s more familiar with than he is doubting his choices. So he goes with it, letting his hands satisfy their curiosity by running them over curves that don’t exist, breathing in the heavy scent of musk he isn’t quite sure he likes and allowing his body the excitement it feels when the strength with which Mitchell handles him makes him feel like he’s about to be taken.

“Think we’re going to make it all the way to the bed?” Anders breathes cheekily when Mitchell pulls away from his lips to kiss down his neck, laughing when Anders finally cops his feel by letting his hands wander over the tight jeans that started all this, giving Mitchell’s behind a good, firm squeeze.

“Why?” Mitchell asks, stopping his kissing in favour of turning to look at Anders. “Did I kiss your knees so weak that you can’t walk?”

“Hardly,” Anders tries to scoff as if that’d ever happen, feeling the need to insult back. “You just seem so eager that I worry you might come into your pants on our way there.”

Mitchell pauses to consider him with a look that holds an equal amount of mirth and frown, then moving so fast that Anders can only yelp when he’s lifted off the ground and is being carried very much like a bride in the general direction of the bedroom.

“Your attempts at trying to emasculate me fall short,” Anders says while giving the vampire a dry look, wrapping his arms around his neck instead of struggling against the hold. “In fact, I should pay you to carry me places and save me the trouble of walking. _Fool_.”

Laughing, Mitchell struggles to open a door Anders knows for sure isn’t his bedroom but says nothing until it’s opened and Mitchell realises his mistake.

“And don’t put me back into the closet when I’m just about to exit it,” Anders comments against the muttered curses.

“Just about to exit it, are you?” Mitchell says offhandedly, jostling him a bit in his arms when a look of cheer overtakes his face as they stumble into the right room. “I do love them virgin sacrifices.”

“Then you’ll find no love here, Dracula, because believe it or not, I’ve actually had my fair share of lays.”

Reminding himself of this fact calms him down a notch, because Anders _does_ have experience, so there’s really no need for the nervousness that keeps strengthening its hold on the bottom of his stomach the closer they get to the bed.

But Mitchell takes all his shreds of reassurance away by reminding him that, “Not with men you haven’t,” while setting Anders down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Craning his neck to look at the vampire looming over him, Anders smirks and places his hands on Mitchell’s hips because they’re right there in front of him, bony and hidden underneath clothing that proves not to be much of an obstacle when he slides his thumbs underneath the hem of Mitchell’s ridiculous T-shirt. “And I suppose you laid with many a chap back in Transylvania?”

Shrugging, Mitchell says, “I might’ve.” while ridding himself of his leather jacket, letting it drop onto the floor.

“ _Might’ve_?” Anders questions him, willing and failing his hands not to tremble when he goes to unbutton his dress shirt while Mitchell moves onto pulling his T-shirt over his head. And while Anders knows how to appreciate the beauty of the muscular torso that appears from underneath the cloth, he can’t say he knows how to reap the benefits of it the way the situation requires.

“You know those parties you went to in the 60’s and 70’s where a lot of questionable things happened and you woke up in the morning in the arms of some hairy French fisherman unable to remember what had happened last night?” Mitchell keeps chatting, his hair an absolute mess.

“No. I can’t say I do.” Anders muses, looking doubtful. “And not because I didn’t exist during that time but because stuff like that doesn’t actually happen.”

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t.” Mitchell agrees, helping the shirt to fall down Anders’ shoulders after the god had successfully managed to open all the buttons.

Getting undressed like this, without rush and heat, feels more like fun than it does of getting down to business. And to his surprise, that’s what he’s having, _fun_ , despite the absurdity of everything. For a moment Anders wants to take Mitchell’s hand and ask him to stop all this so that they could go and just eat ice cream instead, watch and comment on stupid telly instead, because it’s not like-

It’s not like this is going to _last_ if Anders gives in when Mitchell pushes him to lie on his back on the bed, which he does. Quite willingly. And it’s not like Mitchell will ever unexpectedly grab his hand and have him laugh at a fair, not after he palms his crotch and swallows the sounds leaving Anders’ throat like they have a taste of their own, one that he can’t seem get enough of. Not when Mitchell takes advantage of all the gasps he causes and pushes his tongue into Anders mouth without meeting any resistance.

It’s probably also the moment Anders abandons any thoughts of this turning into something else than it is about to at the moment. No, he’s too busy marvelling at the body above him –cold skinned but hot with intention- that presses him down onto the mattress with such surety and power not quite of this world that it makes him yield even though that was not a part of his plans.

He can feel Mitchell growing hard against his thigh where he’s rolling his hips while his hand is flat on Anders’ chest where he can feel the lack of breasts and hair in their stead. The hand goes down, down, down too slowly for Anders’ liking, and to show his impatience, he grabs two fistfuls of Mitchell’s hair and yanks and bites, presses his leg harder up against the man’s crotch and pushes forward to invade his mouth.

But Mitchell only pulls back and pries Anders’ hands away from his hair – _gently_ \- and brings them above Anders’ head where he keeps them by holding the cross of Anders’ wrists in a firm grip to keep him in place even though that’s hardly what makes Anders feel like he’s pinned. It’s the way Mitchell looks down at him through his lashes, right into his eyes to gauge the way he takes Anders’ breath away when goes to undo the front of his trousers and take his cock in hand.

“You okay?” Mitchell asks him casually like he often goes to stroke the pricks of other men, the pace he’s setting unhurried and the look in his eyes as soft as his tone of voice. And he’s still _looking_ at Anders in such a way that makes him afraid to answer with anything but a nod, because something seems to already be crackling, and it feels like if he says something then his voice at least would break.

“Good. That’s- good.” He says, gaze finally dropping to the task at hand, allowing Anders the time to breathe in with a great gasp as soon as he sees the whiteness of his ceiling instead of the brown in Mitchell’s eyes. “I haven’t _really_. Well. You know.”

“I can _feel_ that,” Anders laughs a bit breathlessly, feeling the stroking coming to a sudden halt when Mitchell’s head snaps to look at him with wide, embarrassed eyes before they narrow.

“That’s an awfully ballsy thing to say to someone who has your cock in their hand, eh?” Tightening his grip in what Anders thinks might be a show of threat but only manages to make his thighs shiver from the pleasure of it, Mitchell would look displeased if not for the obvious mirth radiating off him.

Tugging against the hold on his wrists a bit, Anders raises an eyebrow in challenge and does not stop his hips from rolling up into the hand around his member. “If you’d let me go I could maybe show you what I like.”  

“You _could_ ,” Mitchell agrees, but the only thing he lets go of is Anders’ erection when he goes to open his own fly. And Anders won’t complain, not now, craning his neck instead to have his look at where the dark trail on Mitchell’s stomach leads to. “But I don’t think I’ll let you.”

“And why is that?” Anders asks, swallowing hard not from the sight of just another cock, but because of the thoughts of the things he’d do with it just to make Mitchell squirm.

“Because you’re not very nice.” Mitchell breathes when he starts to stoke himself instead.

“I never claimed to be,” Anders argues and likes the sight above him if the quickening beat of his heart can be trusted on these matters. “And stop neglecting me.”

At his command Mitchell just closes his eyes and lets out a theatrical moan, stoking himself fast and hard before Anders’ displeased, “ _Oi_!” has him laughing. He then finally settles better between Anders’ legs and ruts his hips down so that their bared arousals get pressed against each other and in between the heat of their lower stomachs.

There’s nothing theatrical about the moan that leaves the both of them then. Especially not when Mitchell’s hand goes to take both of them in hand stroke them in perfect accordance with the jerking of his hips.

And then he’s looking down at Anders again who knows he must look ridiculously flushed and way too ready to flip over the edge over such a little touch, not quite comprehending where Mitchell finds the composure to look down at him like-

Like-

Like-

And when Mitchell leans down to press their gasping mouths together Anders comes hard, for the first time, from having been kissed like there’s something to love.

 

* * *

 

Anders leans heavy and boneless against the headboard of his bed, watching through heavy lidded eyes at Mitchell’s naked back and the way his muscles move underneath his skin when he goes to pick his shirt and jacket from the bedroom floor. They had lied together on Anders’ bed for a while after they’d come, not saying much before Mitchell had stood up and made it obvious that it was time for him to go.

Because it wasn’t like Anders was about to insist that he stayed.

So he’s watching him dress up and leave instead, saying nothing until Mitchell hesitates at the bedroom door, turning to look at Anders before saying, “I’ll call you.”

“No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Mitchell agrees with a small laugh with nothing behind it before he goes and the front door closes behind him.

It’s only then when Anders allows himself a small smirk of self-satisfaction, because if Mitchell honestly thinks he’s seen the last of him, he’s sorely mistaken. After all, Anders has to stick to his plans to have things go his way, and the plan _was_ to see Mitchell without his jeans –jeans which he noted had stayed on for the duration of their little rut.

Yes indeed, perhaps Anders ought to pay another visit to the hospital, if not because he’s concerned for his general health, then for other reasons entirely.


End file.
